


Waking

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Memories, Post Reichenbach, dealing with death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John wakes, he isn't sure if reality is any better than his nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Sherlock fic. It's a good way to deal with feelings. Hope you enjoy! Any mistakes are mine as it has not been beta-ed.

His hand was shaking, always shaking, always these days, but nonetheless he picked up the glass and downed the water inside. Sweat beaded down his forehead as he tried to breath, calmly, deep breaths, long and slow. It was always like this. Every time he awoke from a nightmare. Drenched. Worried. A name always on his lips.

It used to be from the battlefield, from his army days. It used to be people he couldn’t save, couldn’t help, couldn’t heal. 

These days it was the fall. Always the fall. The fall that he could never quite witness, never quite remember. It danced around him, his memory, much like his dreams. 

Much like his nightmares.

John took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale, swallow. Mechanical motions, really, by this point and at this time. The sun is just breaching the night’s sky, slowly lighting up the horizon with pale blues and whites chasing away the deep navy and blackness. Chasing away the stars back to their hiding places where no one could see them if they just looked up. 

The name never came. If it did, it was said silently, to the darkness of the room. Or half-choked out. Never fully, always stopping, always missing a syllable. 

Always reflecting the fall – missing a piece. Or was it he who was missing something. Someone.

A person he cared about.

The nightmare was harsh. Was terrible. It was reality. 

The blood, the pulse, the people, the set up, the confusion.

It was a constant state of confusion. John was confused – is confused. It felt as if this was from yesterday, just happening. His life in danger, the other’s at the end. 

Another breath, in and out, his chest moving up and down, filling to capacity and then being let out in one great sigh. He could feel his pyjamas, his bed, his sheets, his pillow was nowhere to be – it was on the ground, by his bedside stand. It was dark. It was Fall. Always fall – no it was November. With the leaves changing colour, the grass browning, winter coats were appearing, scarves being worn. 

He was awake and in his bed. There were no people or street corners or anything. Just him, alone, in his bed, in his flat. His housecoat was on the door – it was not another person – and his dresser was a mess. 

He was looking for a job, a different clinic. Change of pace. Something new. New settings.

But never new enough. 

This was reality. Reaffirmed reality. He existed. In this room he existed. 

Breathe in and out. One and two.

John was not okay, but he was alive. Dreams and nightmares were just part of his mind, nothing new. Reality was right here. He could feel the soft linen clenched between his fingers, and the song of a bird outside, bringing about a new day. One more day. The day that comes after yesterday. He could feel the breeze in his room, from the window he left a crack open. 

A new day, a new clinic, a new possibility.

Another day without Sherlock, without a case, without a flatmate.

Sometimes, the nightmares were softer than reality.


End file.
